Disclaimer: Don't own Batman or any related materials. Except that Scarecrow mask I made. I own that. Otherwise, though, it's all DC's.

Masks & Observers

It was dark on the roof. All the lights were off, and the off-yellow lamps and neon signs of the street far below cast a mixed, faded light upwards, like old lava glowing under a cracked rock. The only sounds were ambient – the distant rumble and screech of traffic, the whispering of the wind, and the occasional drone of a red-eye flight passing overhead, invisible through the smog that covered Gotham's night sky. It was late, and Jim Gordon was cold.

Standing in the chilly, artificial twilight, the Police Commissioner had a dozen things he'd rather be doing right now. Dealing with some of the paperwork that seemed to be breeding in his office. Talking with the MCU veterans to get a feel for their next move in the Lawton case. Helping break in some of the newbies to the GCPD. Hell, even keeping track of the Batman investigation, balancing act between obstructing and encouraging that it was. Being at home, with Barbara and the kids…

Visibly shaking himself out of that train of thought, Gordon turned back to the skyline, as though watching for something. Seeming to find it, he sighed, sagging slightly in on himself. An observer would have noted the grey at his temples, and the stress lines that marked his face, and wondered at how small he looked, his shoulders slumped. That observer would have probably also felt guilt at his part in causing the stress that had aged the Commissioner.

"It's getting tougher." To the (entirely hypothetical) observer he would have seemed to speak to himself – the only other person there, after all, would be the observer. Who, if he had existed, would have been impressed that Gordon had realised his presence. "Slowing down the investigation into Dent's death. Keeping the old mob in prison. And now these new guys. We don't even know how or when Deadshot got out, or who hired him, and… And I'm calling him Deadshot. Not Floyd Lawton, Deadshot." The Commisioner turned to look into the shadows. "Sometimes I wonder if Barbara was right; perhaps you did bring all this craziness on us. Maybe you were the catalyst." He paused. "Maybe not. This city's always been a little bit crazy."

A voice came from the shadows, deep and artificially gravelled. Gordon's momentary victory at having detected the Batman faded as he realised what direction it was coming from, and turned almost 90 degrees to the left. "What's your next move?"

"Deadsh- Lawton. We get him, we get the guys who busted him out, we get the guys who hired them. With the old mob gone, we need to make sure any newcomers don't get a stranglehold." He breathed, and the energy that had momentarily filled him fled again. "We need to be seen to be doing something, by the politicians just as much as the public. The Mayor wants results so badly, you'd think he was the one being shot at." Gordon snorted, disgust overpowering fatigue. "He's even hired some special consultant behind my back. I'm going to have to pose for the cameras with this Nashton guy, and act like hiring showbiz geniuses is going to solve all our problems."

The voice returned. "Edward Nashton."

On any other night, Gordon might have looked for a question mark at the end of the sentence. Anger allowed him an outburst laced with sarcasm. "Edward Nashton! The modern day Sherlock Holmes. Solved the Calendar Killings back in 2000. Had his own TV show, for god's sake." The anger collapsed again as he shook his head, like a house of cards. "It's just a stunt. I'd rather have some new squad cars, the amount they're paying him."

Underneath the gravel of the reply, there might have been a note of sympathy. You'd have to rake deeply to find it, though. "Go after Deadshot. I'll hold the streets. Anything I hear, you'll hear." With that, the observer was gone.

"Sir?" Gordon turned to walk back to the stairwell, understanding the reason behind his collaborator's hasty retreat. "What are you doing out here?" Ramirez was the one standing in the door, silhouetted by the dirty yellow glow of an old lightbulb. Gordon would have been rid of her, for what she'd done to Dawes and to his family… but she knew. Of all of them, she had to survive Dent's attack.

"Just taking a smoke break, Ramirez." Gordon didn't have any cigarettes – the whole force knew he'd quit years ago, even putting away the old pipe he used to carry around. It didn't matter.

Ramirez had agreed to keep silent about what Dent had become. She seemed genuinely remorseful. But in his darker moments, the Commissioner found himself wishing Dent had hit just a little harder, enough to knock her out forever. He hoped it was a good sign, that he could admit that. Until the charade wasn't necessary, until the truth could survive without lies propping it up, he had to keep her on the force. If the day ever came when she didn't matter… Well, Gordon admitted, he'd just get her away. Offer her a transfer to Metropolis, or Central, or Blüdhaven.

She just nodded, and followed him inside, voice fading from the roof as they moved down the stairs. "Yes, sir. Stephens and Allen want to talk to…"

The rooftop was dark and quiet again.

That was several weeks ago.

The inside of the car was quiet for some time, only the muffled rumbling of the engine breaking the contemplative silence. Crane was examining the mask, turning it over on his hands, noting the differences – the tinted lenses for the eyes, the visible rebreather mechanism, the more secure straps. The man in black, the one who was presumably responsible for his release, was leaning back into his seat, watching Crane intently. "Deadshot" Lawton watched Crane with half-an-eye, while scanning the rapidly-passing street outside with the other one-and-a-half. Finally, Crane looked up at his benefactor and raised an eyebrow quizzically. The man was quick to respond, leaning forward and smiling.

"Do you know why I went to all the trouble of getting you here, Doctor?" Crane recognised the question as rhetorical. "I need a specialist - an expert opinion."

"On?" The man clearly didn't appreciate the interruption. He looked to be the sort who liked to hear himself talk, or at least, to see people listening to him.

"On certain prospective employees. I'd like you to be a talent scout, to use a sporting term." Crane would rather he hadn't, to be honest. Sport-related memories tended to be something a sore spot. "Do you know how most mobs get their men? Not the thugs and gangbangers, you can pull them off any street corner, I mean the specialists. The experts? Chemists, middlemen, enforcers, etcetera?" He wasn't given a chance to reply. "Prison. Now, for the Romans, imprisonment was temporary – just place to put a criminal before execution or their actual punishment. These days, though, jailtime is the punishment itself. More humane." The man in black sneered. "Take all the criminals you can catch and stick them in the same building. Whose genius idea was that? If you're looking for professionals, prison is basically just a concrete phonebook."

Crane suspected his new employer had never actually been in prison.

"Be that as it may, a former psychologist is hardly most qualified person to recruit career criminals, Mr…?"

"Of course not." The man showed no inclination to respond to Crane's unvoiced question. "But these are… exceptional people." The man in black leaned back in his seat, resting his hands on his knees. "We won't be recruiting these people from BG Penitentiary, or any other prison. We're going to be looking for our new friends at Arkham Asylum."

It was a belief held by Alfred Pennyworth in his less occupied moments that money had many qualities in common with light. Both were comforting presences, and while it could even be scary fun to be without one for a while, it quickly became tiresome, or even fatal. He had, in his time managing the fortune in Master Wayne's absence, come upon another similarity – as the speed of light is approached, time warps. So too is time altered in the presence of large amounts of money, to the extent that the manor the contractors had predicted would take years to finish had been all-but-complete within nine months, and ready for return just a few later.

Stately Wayne Manor, restored to its former glory. Perhaps it would do Master Wayne some good to return to the old house, leaving the penthouse and its tainted memories behind. Or perhaps not. Given the amount of time he actually spent in either, Alfred suspected it was a moot point.

Well, he thought, as he supervised the carrying of the luggage back into the hall. It'll do me a world of good to be back, anyway. Master Wayne had insisted they hire some helpers to bring the (extensive) luggage in from the cars, and Alfred had happily conceded that he wasn't the man he used to be when it came to heavy lifting. But he would be damned before he let even the pretence of doing something around the house drop. Besides, he thought, in between chewing out a careless box-carrier and making small talk with the pretty girl assigned to looking out for any missed items, if he's going to be off plotting his crusade against the underworld, it might as well be within shouting range. I've had quite enough of the shipping yard, thank you.

The unpacking took another hour, and by the time it was finished, Alfred had lost track of Master Wayne, who'd gone from standing around feigning feigning polite interest in actual work, to wandering around loudly reminiscing, to… ah.

The cave under the manor had been more-or-less untouched by the fire, and in any case was mostly rock. But once again, the power of money came to the fore, and a few expressed concerns about the safety of the foundations in that area had led to the contractor himself suggesting some improvements, at a cost, of course. Alfred had initially wanted to properly renovate the cave – say what you would about the shipping yard, but at least it wasn't filled with guano - under the guise of a place for Master Wayne's more discreet "tête-à-têtes". The idea had been vetoed as too easily exposed – the tabloids would eat it up, and the last thing Master Wayne needed was his supermodel guest for the week asking to see his "Playboy Cave".

True to Alfred's expectations, Master Wayne was in the cave, going over designs and blueprints in the spot of light cast by one of the wall-lamps. Computers, lighting, wardrobes and the like were simple to acquire discreetly, and to install in the cave – ramps for the Tumbler, or more extensive changes, were not. Any real changes to the cave needed to made with the practically of having a grand total workforce of two men in mind, one of whom was Alfred (who felt that this was made up for by the other being Master Wayne).

"Worked out where you want the patio yet, sir?"

He barely looked up.

"I'm going over some old plans." He shifted to retrieve another piece of paper from the pile – a much-annotated map of Gotham's Narrows, Alfred saw from over his shoulder. "With the cave and the manor back I need to have escape routes ready."

"From the mob-"

"From the police." He looked up, equal parts frustration and sadness clouding his expression. "I'd hoped this was over, Alfred. That I'd… gained their trust. That I'd be able to work with authority, not outside it."

Oh, thought Alfred. It's one of those moods again. "And you did, sir. But that trust was the sacrifice you had to make to keep most of the mob behind bars."

"They'll be released eventually" he turned back to his map and began marking points on an alley. "And there are already new ones, moving to take their place. We took down the workers, but the scaffolding, the structure is still there."

Alfred snorted a laugh. "Well, you knew you were never going to stop crime completely, sir. There'll always be those who turn to crime, through… necessity, or greed. But you can give the police some room to breathe. It doesn't matter if they don't trust you, so long as you're making a difference."

Bruce paused, a question dying on his lips, before dropping his pen and getting up, moving over to the blackened metal wardrobe that held the suit. He stared at it, focusing on the symbol on its chest, before speaking. "They think Batman's a murderer, Alfred."

Alfred watched his back for a few moments, struck by the simultaneous similarity in posture to a 7 year-old Bruce sulking at Rachel and an 8 year-old Bruce watching the funeral attendees leave. He ventured out. "Why do we fall, Mast-"

"I didn't fall, Alfred!" He spat. "Dent fell! Rachel fell! They've fallen and they'll never get up again!" He spun around to face him, hands trembling slightly with futile rage. "Sometimes you can't! Sometimes you just – break your legs."

Alfred's reply was frustrated. "Shall I invest in crutches then, Master Wayne? Or will you be content to battle the scum of Gotham from a wheelchair?" He mastered himself. "You've made it clear that you intend to continue your… crusade. And it's clear-" he gestured at the map of the Narrows "-that there are people who need your help. Now, I don't think you've broken anything, Master Wayne. But if you can't pick yourself up, ask me for a hand. For god's sake – don't crawl."

Bruce held his gaze for a few silent moments, before moving back to the table and leaning over his blueprints, a smile ghosting across his face. "Ask you for a hand – you didn't even help unpack."

Alfred grinned. "To be honest, sir, I was hoping to keep the physical exertion metaphorical on my part." He started back toward the elevator.

"Weren't you a soldier?" Bruce asked flippantly. "You should be used to heavy lifting!"

"I was a pilot, not a footslogger!" Alfred shot back, as the doors opened. "You get Lucius to make you a bloody ninja-helicopter, and I'll-" The doors closed. Bruce's smile stayed in place this time.

The silence in the car was, while not deafening, certainly loud enough to make a listener wince and reach for the volume controls. Crane was caught off-guard, and the man in black was waiting for some sort of reply. Unexpectedly, it was Deadshot who broke the silence, keeping his pistol pointed firmly in Crane's direction while sparing his employer a long glance.

"You're serious, Sionis?" A raised eyebrow from the man in question led him to shrug and turn back to his charge.

Sionis. Unless it was an assumed name, or Deadshot was being deliberately obtuse, Crane now had a name to work with. It sounded familiar, perhaps from his time as a psychiatrist… He hit upon the answer just as Sionis began talking again.

"What sort of man do you think I am, Doctor?"

"A rich one." Came the smirking reply "I know the Sionis name. Frederic Sionis, owner of one of the biggest Gotham companies to ever go down." Crane took off his glasses, rubbing them idly. "When Janus Corp filed for bankruptcy, a lot of people lost their jobs." He looked up, and the tight smile was back. "Economic depression leads to mental depression. It was a good time to work at an asylum."

"Roman Sionis. I don't intend to limp away from Gotham with the remains of my wealth." Sionis' suddenly stony expression softened back into practiced personability. "My father's problem, drink aside, was that he was unable to adapt to… changing circumstances. I can. I've rebuilt my wealth by spotting trends and going along with them. Entertainment, food, furnishing, politics…" He waved his hand vaguely, as though trying to sieve a stray thought out of the air.

"Crime." Deadshot supplied.

Sionis nodded. "Exactly." He turned back to Crane. "See, the Batman's a trendsetter. He's changed the rules of the game. Those who can't keep up… Well, that was the old mob." He snapped his fingers emphatically. "I don't need the usual guys. I don't need old hands, or lieutenants looking for a new job – they're comfortable, and they're soft. We need to play catch-up, so, I need… Freaks. People with… fewer restraints. People like you, and like Mr. Deadshot Lawton here."

"Freaks?" Lawton's face showed his distaste, but another sharp look from Sionis kept him from pressing the point. Crane interjected.

"Mr. Sionis, many members of the old mob are in Arkham. Some of them are even legitimately insane. But if you're looking to start up a new one, and just think that the Asylum's security is laxer, then-"

The man in black cut him off, raising a hand and waving it slightly.

"No. No, no, it's not about the security. It's about… the effect. People talk about the police, they're talking about men. People talk about Batman, they're talking about a myth. That's the effect I want to get on my side, where it should be. Now, I can't exactly talk to my marketing guys about this – so you're my guy."

Crane watched him, reminded of a man making an enthusiastic business pitch, one he'd been preparing for some time.

"It's not like this is something new. You've got pirates, like Blackbeard, in Europe you had your warlords, like Vlad Tepes. Haiti had General Duvalier, we've got the KKK… People turning themselves into legends. With… fear, and rumours. Blackbeard stuck burning tapers into his beard to make him look scary – the Batman's got his wings, and his mask. Vlad impaled people on spikes, and claimed they formed a ring of ghosts around his castle – the Batman throws people off roofs and, and drives through walls. And that is exactly what we-" The car rolled to a stop. "-Ah. We're here."

"Here" turned out to be a rather unprepossessing warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Graffiti plastered the walls, running into and along itself like a freeform art project, or the result of hundreds of children with tourette's struggling over a single piece of chalk and one blackboard. Any paint that could be seen was flaking, and any visible metal was rusted. Trash big and small littered the ground. It was…"Charming." Said Crane.

Deadshot had lowered his gun, apparently satisfied that Crane wasn't about to pull a weapon from thin air or make a break for it. He looked up from the cigar he was lighting and grinned. "Swanky neighbourhood, right?"

Sionis walked past both of them, seemingly unirritated by the commentary. Raising a remote control from his jacket pocket, he unlocked the closest warehouse door, as well as opening a shuttered garage door facing out into the open lot, which the black car drove into before falling silent; the driver apparently satisfied to wait inside as the shutters closed again.

"This", he said, walking inside, "is our base of operations. Come on in, make yourselves at home." The other two were already halfway through the door.

The inside was… different.

The place had the curious stink of newness – without any human smells to fill the air, the smell of dried glue, varnish and paint lurked on the edge of the nose. The floors were new, varnished wood, easy to wipe clean. The walls were a dull, light blue-green, like office-spaces around the world – a comparison that got stronger when the cheap-but-durable tables and counters were considered, next to a water cooler, coffee maker and mini-fridge. The comparison weakened only when they passed a closet that held at least half-a-dozen assault rifles. Like a cross between an office building, a clubhouse, and a military installation, it was purpose-designed to the point of artificiality.

Crane half-expected to see posters with encouraging slogans adorning the walls.

A few rooms in they reached what was obviously meant to be some sort of meeting room – a poker table, a (much more expensive-looking) desk, some chairs and a few sofas, with most of the light coming from the windows that lined the top of one of the walls. It was cosy, in a "the man behind this desk could have you killed without losing a moment's sleep" sort of way.

Appropriately, Sionis moved behind his desk. He didn't steeple his fingers, but the image was there. As Deadshot laid back into the sofa, gun still very clearly in his grip, his employer reached into a desk drawer and laid a thick folder in front of Crane.

"These" he said "are the personal files, courtesy of Dr. Quinzel, of every inmate at Arkham Asylum with any kind of background in organised crime. I want you to go through these, and pick out a few choice crazies for me." He pushed the stack of files across the desk. Crane took off his glasses to read, talking as he leafed through it, glancing down at profiles he was mostly familiar with.

"I take it you don't want lunatics, Mr. Sionis?" He drew out and set aside a file he was familiar with. Garfield Lyons, a former legbreaker and arsonist for Falcone. Crane had been interested to discover his very real pyromania after having him committed to avoid a jail-sentence.

"No." came the reply. "Just psychos."

"Manipulable, controllable, semi-professional…" Crane mused as he set aside another file, that of the abrasive Mr. Zsaz. "You don't want another 'Joker' on your hands."

"No." The reply was repeated. "That… clown managed to get the whole underworld under his thumb with some crappy makeup and a couple of home-videos, but he killed damn near everyone else he worked with." A humourless smile. "And that's just bad business."

"From what I've been told, it was never about the business." Crane offered, sliding out the file of Victor Fries, former hitman and "garbage disposal" for The Chechen.

"Which is why he's locked up in your loony bin. No business – no goals. What, what did he achieve? Hh? A judge, a Commissioner – whose replacement is by all accounts even more competent – and a couple of nobodies. He couldn't even kill Dent, he had to let the Batman do it." Crane's expression soured infinitesimally. "No, we're a business. We're just… taking a new approach. One that's previously been seen to yield dividends." Sionis grinned, obviously pleased by the semi-ironic burst of boardroom-speak.

Crane continued to leaf through the files in silence, disappointed both by Sionis' outburst and the fact that one of his favourite patients, Waylon "Croc" Jones, was missing. It seemed that Sionis and he weren't on as much the same page as he'd thought. He doubted his employer had ever even come close to the madman he was disparaging.

In this Crane was wrong, although in fact rather than spirit. Roman Sionis, as a semi-major player amongst the Gothamite elite, and a returned-new-face, was often considered a default name on the invitation list for any party with a budget of over a million. As such, it wasn't surprising that he attended the Wayne brat's ridiculous little fundraiser.

What was surprising was that, almost alone out of all the guests, Sionis hadn't been afraid when the Joker entered the room. There was caution, certainly, in the same way that one might feel caution while encountering some strange and beautiful new animal, but no fear. Not the fear of the prey, that Rachel Dawes felt but resisted, or the fear of the protector, as felt by the Batman when the mouthy bitch got herself thrown out of the window, no. What Sionis felt was what DaVinci felt when he saw birds soar, or Newton when he encountered his apple. Inspiration.

"And, ah, Doctor?" Crane looked up, having more or less finished with the files. "I'm going to need something, too." Crane quirked an eyebrow. Sionis rolled his eyes with a tight grin. "A gimmick, a look, a mask…" The hand motions returned. "Something."

"Excuse me for a moment." Crane rose from his chair, moving behind the desk, and began rifling through the bag that Sionis had pulled his mask from, finding just what he was looking for – a battered aerosol can, one of his earlier attempts at weaponisation. Less potent and concealable than his later versions. Sionis frowned and drew himself back as Crane raised it to head-height, while Deadshot whipped his gun up to aim at Crane's chest.

You couldn't be too careful when dealing with a man who used biological warfare in fistfights.

Crane subverted expectations, however, by turning the spray-can on himself, a light spray directly in his face. Immediately, the world swam, sound dulled and vision blurred, like looking at the surface of a pool from underwater. It sharpened oddly in places, becoming jagged and harsh, before settling back into something approaching normality.

Distorted by the toxin, but still clearly concerned, a voice came from behind. "Doctor?"

Any pretence of concern in the voice was lost when Scarecrow turned to face Sionis. His finely tailoured suit was ratty and frayed, covered in dust like the clothes of a recently-excavated corpse. His face warped, like a morbid funhouse mirror, before settling into the face of a dead man, maggots eating away at exposed flesh while pus dripped from his mouth and what remained of his nose.

I am, thought Scarecrow with mad glee, looking into the souls of men.

"I don't like this."

Scarecrow looked toward the other voice, and stared into the face of the devil – Deadshot's red coat glistened angrily, like the freshly flayed robe of an Aztec priest. The tinted lenses of his glasses glowed crimson, and the sunlight reflecting off the metal of his gun barrel had become flame, pure and sinister and flickering with half-glimpsed faces.

Scarecrow's unsettlingly tranquil gaze returned to Sionis, as though studying him, seeing him for the first time. In his mind, the maggots worked with terrible efficiency, gorging themselves and leaving behind only a blackened skull with glistening red eyes, staring grotesquely at him from atop Sionis' shoulders like some absurd ghost-train puppet, a waxwork loa clad in Armani.

Crane blinked and the vision subsided, leaving only a faint, high-pitched twittering in the background and vague stirrings in the shadows. He smiled tightly but lucidly at his employer.

"Mr. Sionis," he spoke carefully to avoid slurring, steadying himself on the desk. There are varying degrees of lucidity, after all. "I think I have some ideas for you."